


Each Their Own

by notmadderred



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mouth Sewn Shut, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 19:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18923599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmadderred/pseuds/notmadderred
Summary: Prompt: for the bad things happen bingo, simmons with mouth stitched close?? baby boy doesn’t know when to shut up around felix or templeHe may die never seeing Grif again.He may die never getting to tell Grif that…Simmons set his shoulders straight and stopped abruptly.Bucky ran into him, then, with a snarl, jammed his gun between Simmons’ shoulder blades. “The fuck are you doing? Keep moving.”What would Grif do to keep Temple occupied, to draw his attention long enough to give someone the time to rescue them?In reality, he’d do something stupid, like wander around and eat random food. But in a situation like this…“I’d just like to say that Temple is the ugliest, dumbest, and most fucking annoying person I’ve ever met. That English accent thing he does sometimes is fucking stupid; his plans are unoriginal; his team is full of useless bozos who would’ve accomplished nothing had it not been for Loco--”“Bullshit,” snarled Bucky.





	Each Their Own

**Author's Note:**

> I made some changes regarding the situation of Temple and Friends. Nothing too dramatic; just something to be aware of.
> 
> Also, check out [this](https://peachycans.tumblr.com/post/185145140198/based-off-of-each-their-own-by-not-madder-red) amazing piece of artwork by peachycans inspired by this work!

Simmons’ gut twisted as he, Caboose, and Tucker were led to the cells. They really needed that missile to work, but without a proper guiding system, the chances of Lopez getting to Grif -- or at the very least, getting to Grif fast enough -- were slim to none.

He’d run through a dozen different scenarios as to how this could end, and the only conceivable way that Grif would get here would be if someone A) happened to see Lopez’s head drifting by, B) for some dumb fucking reason, took that head into their ship, C) knew Spanish, D) listened to and believed everything a fucking robot had to say, E) decided to accordingly get Grif, F) Grif agreed to go along and G) this all happened soon.

Those thoughts quite nearly sent him into a downward spiral.

He gritted his teeth and forced his breaths to go heavily through his nose.

They were going to die. This was it. They were dead. There wasn’t nearly enough time for Grif to come back and rescue them

_(if Grif came back and rescued them)_

No. He couldn’t think like that.

Grif just needed time.

They needed to stall Temple to have any chance out of here.

_There wasn’t a chance but still still it was_ GrifGrifhecoulddothisifanyonoecould

 

He may die never seeing Grif again.

He may die never getting to tell Grif that… 

Simmons set his shoulders straight and stopped abruptly. 

Bucky ran into him, then, with a snarl, jammed his gun between Simmons’ shoulder blades. “The fuck are you doing? Keep moving.”

What would Grif do to keep Temple occupied, to draw his attention long enough to give someone the time to rescue them?

In reality, he’d do something stupid, like wander around and eat random food. But in a situation like this…

“I’d just like to say that Temple is the ugliest, dumbest, and most fucking annoying person I’ve ever met. That English accent thing he does sometimes is fucking stupid; his plans are unoriginal; his team is full of useless bozos who would’ve accomplished nothing had it not been for Loco--”

“Bullshit,” snarled Bucky.

Tucker was giving him a weird look, and if Simmons was reading his lips right, mouthing to himself, “What the fuck?”

“You’re bullshit,” Simmons shot back. “You’re worth _nothing_. Temple is worth _nothing_. He’s got you all wrapped around his little finger all because some now-dead Freelancer and another reformed Freelancer killed a guy he had a crush on. Boo,” he took a step forward, “fucking,” another, “hoo.”

Bucky snarled and slammed the butt of his weapon against Simmons’ face, only hitting his cyborg side. He couldn’t feel it.

Simmons leveled a glare and stood taller, towering as best he could over Bucky. “Is that all you got, you fucking pansy?”

Bucky looked ready to hit him again, but someone grabbed his arm.

Temple.

Simmons swallowed down his fear.

“You’re causing all kinds of trouble, aren’t you, Simmons?” Temple drawled. Simmons could hear the bite beneath -- he’d hurt him. “Gotta say, I’ve never seen Gene go off like that.”

He took a deep breath, sparing a glance to Tucker and Caboose.

Caboose was still unnaturally quiet, ever since Tucker mumbled to him that they were playing a quiet game. His gaze kept flickering to Tucker, waiting for him to speak so the game would be over.

Tucker had one hand wrapped around Caboose’s elbow defensively. He still wasn’t speaking, perhaps to make sure Caboose didn't say anything to anger Bucky further and get himself hurt. There was a question in his eyes as he met Simmons’ gaze. 

Simmons’ looked back to Temple. “Hey. How’s things?”

Temple was now also eyeing Simmons suspiciously. “What is this?”

Simmons shrugged, his heart officially in his throat. He could do this. He needed to give Grif time to get here _(he’s not going to get here)_. “I thought I may as well say my piece before you inevitably get us all killed. Yourself included, of course, because you’re obviously a fucking dumbass.”

He could tell he’d gotten to Temple. His face flushed with anger, and something malicious flashed behind his eyes. Simmons wanted to take a step back, wanted to apologize and backtrack like his life depended on it but

but someone needed to be brave like Grif. And Grif wasn’t here. Someone needed to play his role, and right now, it was up to Simmons.

So he didn't step back. He didn't apologize.

He moved even closer, so he was now eye-to-eye with the one man who currently made him want to piss himself with fear. “Yeah, you fucking heard me. You egotistical, stupidly lovestruck son of a bi--”

“You know what?” Temple interrupted, face lighting up in some deluded form of madness and excitement, “You… are coming with me.”

Simmons tilted his head and smirked. He’d only ever really looked at Grif this way, when he’d done something Simmons thought was particularly stupid but could also 100 percent prove. It was the one expression he could pull off that always took Grif by surprise. “Why? You looking for a Biff replacement?”

“Simmons,” Tucker finally said, concern heavy in his voice, “what the fuck are you doing.”

Simmons didn't look, couldn’t look at anyone but Temple.

Caboose remained quiet.

“Take those two to their cells, Bucky,” said Temple. “I’ve got something special in mind for this one.”

 

\----

 

The whole way back to -- well, to wherever it was Temple was taking him -- Simmons kept up the snide comments.

He could feel nothing but dread at this point. Every quip that made Temple growl, every time Temple snapped back at him… 

He was distracting Temple, and that was good enough. It had to be good enough.

Temple slammed a door shut, and Simmons jumped. 

Temple cackled. “Not as brave now that we’re alone, huh?”

Simmons mustered a glare. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you. You’re obviously the scared one since you’re still carrying that gun around.”

Temple rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that bit’s not gonna work on me. You’re a cyborg, so technically you have that advantage. But don’t worry!” he smiled, wide and obnoxious and so obviously fake-- “It won’t be the gun that I use. Unless, of course, you make me.” He lifted the weapon then, pointing is casually at Simmons. “You see that wall over there? Hell,” he barked a laugh, “you probably feel it.”

Simmons… felt something, but he wasn’t sure what. He looked at the wall, which appeared to be covered in metal plating. Smoother than the other walls in the mostly-barren room. “What? Is that where you jerk off and think about Bi--”

Simmons knew it was a low blow, knew it would get an instantaneous rise from Temple.

Temple snarled and kicked him, sending him closer to the wall.

That was when he felt it.

The cyborg part of his body jerked him toward it, pulled at his flesh in a fast, grating motion until

_CLANG!_

He was stuck to the wall. 

The wall, which was actually a magnet.

What the fuck.

Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck

He tried to move his head off it, but the plating prevented him from budging at all.

Okay.

He was starting to panic.

His spine, much of his back, parts of his face and head, a whole arm and leg, even some of his fucking organs were being drawn to this thing.

He was stuck.

He was helpless.

Temple grinned. “There it is. That _glorious_ fear I’ve been waiting to see. At the risk of repeating myself… not so brave now, are you?”

His artificial heart was hammering out of his chest. “F- fuck you.”

Temple threw his head back and laughed.

Simmons drew in his human leg, trying to leverage it to push with enough force against the wall to send his body forward. When he didn't budge, he awkwardly angled his arm to do the same.

Still, nothing.

“Oh, it’s almost cute to watch you struggle!” Temple tilted his head and pouted, that sparkle in his eyes still present.

He was fucking insane.

Simmons had just made himself the focal point of a fucking psychopath

_(forgrifforgrif to give him enough time to save everyone else and)_

When Temple trodded close enough, Simmons whipped out his working leg to kick him.

He missed.

“I--” he said, breathless (from what? from fear?), “I’m gonna f-fucking kill y-you.”

“Sure you are. That little move was one step in… well, in _a_ direction, I suppose.”

He needed… he needed to…

Simmons forced a low laugh from his throat. “P-pinned up against the wall like this.” He looked up to Temple. “Brings back memories for you, doesn’t it? All I need is a-- is a fucking flag pole and--”

“Shut up!” Temple was in his face then, grabbing his jaw and pushing it back enough to ache. “Stop fucking talking about Biff! You don’t know shit about what happened! You don’t know shit about _him_!”

He didn't, really. Biff sounded like a genuinely good person. He just happened to be friends with someone who was probably a little obsessed with him and thus driven completely mad by his untimely demise.

But he needed to keep Temple focused on him. He waited until Temple had let go and back out of kicking range.

“H-he was friends with you, wasn’t he? Then he probably deserved it.”

Simmons didn't believe that at all.

In fact, if Tex and Carolina hadn’t accidentally killed him, this mess may have been prevented. Sure, Temple would still have to confront his feelings, but it would probably be in a much safer, less world-dominating mass-murderer way.

Simmons expected Temple to explode at this. Expected him to… shoot him in the hand, maybe? Simmons knew he wouldn’t kill him seeing as he was insane enough to want those who pissed him off to suffer a fuck-ton before they died.

_(he didn't want to be tortured he didn't want to be tortured oh god had he really not thought this through had he not thought about the consequences but he still had to do this he still had to give Grif time to get here to save everyone but Simmons didn't want it like this but there wasn’t another way and)_

Temple’s face shut down completely. “You’re not going to stop, are you.”

Not a question. A realization. One he probably should have come to sooner, but he’d been too pissed off to see it.

“S- stop shitting on you and y- your friends? Absolutely not.” He shifted as much as he could. The result was minimal. “I just think it’s hilarious that you-- that you fell in love with a dude, didn't tell him, then had to watch him die.” And nonono Simmons didn't think that at all because that was the worst thing in the world something he never would wish on anybody not even Temple but here he was letting those words spill out of his mouth and

“I see.”

He was silent for a long moment.

Simmons wanted to cry. He wanted to cry because he felt in every fiber of his being that was going to die at the hands of this man.

The fact that Temple wasn’t defending himself, wasn’t snarking back made Simmons both feel both scared and a little guilty.

“Would Biff have wanted this? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

But Temple wasn’t paying attention to that.

He lifted one hand and tapped a finger against his chin. “You think it’s hilarious, huh? Hilarious that I watched him die and could do nothing to stop it?” His eyes flitted over to meet Simmons’, unbelievably calm. “Hilarious because I loved him?”

Those words held so much weight behind them.

Simmons wondered if Temple had admitted how he felt before this moment.

If he hadn’t, Simmons was totally fucked.

He didn't respond, though. Didn't respond because it wasn’t hilarious, because he’d been goading Temple. Because he knew that would keep the attention on him, spur Temple to do… _something_ , but Simmons didn't know what.

For a split second, he regretted that his mouth had run away from him, that he’d said those words. At the same time, he was… not glad, but something that paralleled it in some sick fashion. Because Temple was resigned. Because that meant Temple was thinking about nothing except how to make Simmons pay.

“I’ll be back,” Temple said, that eerie calm still lingering in his voice. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Y- you’re a piece of shit, Temple!” Simmons shouted as Temple walked out the door.

But fuckfuckwhatwashedoing? Where was Temple going?fuckfuckfuck

He pushed against the wall again, and a strained noise tore from his throat. Fuck. Fuck!

Temple wasn’t gone long, but Simmons was still sweating with the effort of trying to get free by the time he’d gotten back.

He rolled in a cart, stopped once in the middle of the room to smirk at Simmons and lift a brow. “Wow. Real productive of you. Tired yet?”

Simmons wadded as much saliva as he could in his mouth and spat it at Temple. It landed about a foot in front of him. “You- you're a fucking coward.”

Temple shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But still, I get things done.” He lifted a corner of his lips. “For example, I’m going to make sure you don’t get to say another bad word about me or Biff. And, in doing so, I’m also going to make sure you die slowly, starving and thirsty and stuck to a fucking wall. But you’ll be alive long enough to suffer. Like me.”

Simmons narrowed his eyes, tried to hide his swallowing, tried to ignore as the blood drained from his face and a feeling akin to needles all over his body came across him. A numbing fear. A cold fear. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Temple rolled his eyes. “I know your team has a counterpart for Biff. And I know that, for as long as you trusted me, you couldn’t shut up about him. Not to mention, from what you said, he’ll probably come to try and rescue you. So,” he continued, speaking slowly and deliberately, and at this point Simmons couldn’t hide his fear at all anymore, couldn’t put on a brave fucking face that Grif probably could have kept up even now becausebecausebecause he didn't care for anyone like Simmons did had no one to lose in the same way Simmons did so Temple wouldn’t have been able to effectively make a threat like this against him because Simmons knew where he was going and he’d much rather fucking die because he fucking did this to himself did this to himself and Grif and “I’m going to make sure that, when _Grif_ gets here, he’ll find you. And I’ll also make sure that, when that happens, I kill him right in front of you. But I’ll wait, y’know? I’ll be standing over there,” he said, pointing at a corner behind him while still maintaining eye contact with Simmons, “as he goes to you. I bet it won’t even cross his mind to check the room. And as he fusses over you, you won’t be able to say or do a goddamn thing to warn him.” He looked away then, down to the cart he rolled in. Then he picked up a thread and needles, his smirk widening to a full, maniacal smile. “Because I’ll have stitched your fucking mouth shut.”

Simmons’ eyes widened as series of “nonononono” came pouring out of his mouth, much to the delight of Temple.

“Who’s the coward now, Simmons?” he asked, dropping the needle and thread in favor of grabbing a thicker rope. “First, of course, I wanna make sure don’t try any shit with that arm and leg of yours. I’d chop them off, but I don’t want you to die of blood loss before you see the man _you_ love butchered in front of you.”

Had it always been that obvious? How he felt for Grif?

His feelings, which were now going to get Grif killed?

He approached Simmons then, who in turn instinctively snarled and flailed the half of his body that could fucking work.

With far more ease than strictly necessary, Temple knelt down, grabbed the leg that Simmons attempted to kick him with, and wrapped it from halfway down his thigh to halfway down his shin, paired next to his cyborg one. Like he was some kind of fucked up mermaid.

All the fight seeped out of Simmons’ body. There was nothing he could do. Nothing he could do to save himself to save Grif to save the others

He was useless.

Temple secured Simmons’ arm against his side with a soft chuckle. “I guess you really are all talk and no bite. Better than Gene, I guess, seeing as he has neither.”

Simmons huffed. This was almost sad, wasn’t it? He was getting his goal exactly. With this distraction, perhaps the other Reds and Blues would have the chance to make peace with themselves before they died.

He wondered if Wash and Carolina were doing the same, wherever it was they were.

If they were even still alive.

“Go fuck yourself, Temple,” he said.

“As far as last words go,” Temple said, looking at his hands, “you could have done better.”

Simmons dropped his eyes as best he could to follow Temple’s gaze.

He was putting the thread through the eye of the needle.

Simmons could hear his blood pounding in his ears.

Temple hummed as he tied a knot. “Can’t say I’m particularly good at stitching. Not a hobby I pursued. I’d complain,” and he looked up to Simmons, “but I actually think that’ll make this a lot more interesting. We can learn together.”

“Fuck. You,” Simmons said, and his voice was already wet and wavering and a large part of himself still wasn’t accepting that this was going to happen, was holding out hope that someone would burst through the door and save him.

Temple continued like he hadn’t heard Simmons. “A fun exercise, don’t you think? I can talk about the boys we like while you get to sit there and appreciate my handiwork,” he continued, a faux cheerfulness buzzing in his tone. He lifted the needle suddenly, and Simmons jerked in surprise. Temple laughed. “Oh, this’ll be fun! You can barely move! Perfect for me to practice.”

“Don’t,” he said, and it fell pitifully from his lips. Not the demand he wanted, but the plea that it really was. He couldn’t disguise it.

“Hmmm… Yeah, I think I’ll continue.” He touched the needle against Simmons’ cheek, eliciting a small yelp. “I don’t suggest yawning or anything like that. Try too hard to stop me, and I’ll have Bucky come in here and blow your Blue moron’s brains out.”

Simmons felt the beginnings of a sob working up his throat. A hot tear rolled down from his human eye.

“Oh, come on, Simmons. I need you to tell me that you understand.”

He swallowed. His chest was heaving. He wasn’t going to be responsible for Caboose’s death, too. “I understand.”

“Good.”

Without any further warning, Temple stuck the needle in, and Simmons swallowed any cry of pain so tightly that he bit his tongue hard enough for the blood to barely escape his lips and run down his chin. He whimpered and clenched his fists.

 

It didn't occur until later that those were the last words he spoke.

 

\----

 

Were it not for his cyborg eye, Simmons wouldn’t have been able to count the days.

He was exhausted.

Temple woke him up at every opportunity, leaving Simmons in a constant state of heightened panic and debility.

Temple had shown Simmons his handiwork via an understated handheld mirror.

It was grotesque. Black, jarring thread thrown carelessly and vehemently across his lips. He was swollen, bruised, bleeding. His face was soaked in tears.

That image -- the image of his own face -- flashed across his mind frequently and without warning. He was something out of a horror show. 

He knew he’d taken hours of Temple’s time. He knew he took more and more time for every minute the man came to taunt him, to eat or drink in front of him, to point out, one more time, where he’d be hiding when Grif walks in.

It’d been three days.

He didn't care that he’d distracted Temple anymore.

He didn't care that he wouldn’t be saved.

He was just hurting in every way possible and unable to do a goddamn thing about it. Unable to even fucking complain.

He felt broken.

He felt weak.

Was this all it took, in the end? Stitching his mouth shut? Threatening to kill Grif? Then, boom. No more Simmons. Just a husk of whoever once lived there.

Temple had made an idle comment about how Simmons was almost boring now.

And then he brought a hand up to the ear with a comm in it.

He smiled at Simmons. “My lucky day,” he said.

Simmons didn't understand what he meant until he walked into that fucking corner, leaned against it, and casually took the safety off his gun.

He could feel again.

Simmons’ eyes widened, and he tried to yell. It came out muffled, useless, wordless.

_stopstop please don’t do this please stop he doesn’t deserve this please just let grif live_

He couldn’t care that this meant Grif had come after all. He didn't care that Grif had, once again, defied Simmons’ expectations. 

He didn't want to see his best friend die.

Even if Simmons deserved it, Grif didn't.

Simmons looked around the rest of the room, ignoring the weariness that was still hovering in his bones, ignoring the throbbing pain on his face. He- he had to do something. He couldn’t just leave Grif to fall victim to Temple and

Temple was smiling at him, utterly remorseless. He brought a finger to his lips.

Nonono

Maybe Grif wouldn’t find whatever bait Temple had left.

Maybe it wasn’t him at all. Maybe- maybe it was someone else who also happened to be in orange armor.

His eyes locked on the door. His breaths were coming out short, panicked. 

He blinked, and the world seemed to spin. Nononono.

Oh, God -- it wasn’t real, was it?

Maybe Temple wasn’t in the room at all. Three days without food without sleep without water-- people could only last four days without water on average, and Simmons was below average on just about everything.

So it wasn’t real, he was just dying.

And Grif wasn’t here, wasn’t coming.

The only thing that was real was his mouth being stitched shut.

A whimper escaped his throat.

His chest was starting to ache.

His body wanted to sob, wanted to release that but but but it couldn’t

The door opened.

There was a flash of orange.

Then a flash of green and Simmons was pretty sure Temple was yelling, cursing about his knee, gun clattering to the floor.

He blinked, tried to take a deep breath.

“Shitshitshit-- Simmons, buddy, it’s me. It’s Grif. I’m here. Fuck-- _fuck!_ ”

No. No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be

Grif’s hands hovered over his face, apparently wanting to do something _something_ but, “Locus! I- he- he needs help!”

Simmons blinked again. A face materialized in front of him, expression matching the panic Simmons had felt only moments earlier.

Idly, he tried to speak, “Grif?” having already fucking forgotten and it just came out like

“Hey, Simmons. I’m here-- fuck, I’m so sorry for leaving you. I- I shouldn’t have--”

Simmons made a noise and tried to shift. He needed to tell Grif _it’s okay I forgive you I’ll always forgive you_ but he couldn’t and he was dying and he still wasn’t entirely sure that this was real and

“I hate to tell you this, but we need to find the others. We don’t know what kind of state they’re in.”

Locus? He hadn’t misheard Grif earlier?

“Yeah, I know, I know, just help me get him--” and Grif cut himself off there to start untying the ropes.

Simmons’ arm came free. 

He took another deep breath.

Locus was there, suit slightly different than before. Simmons couldn’t tell how, couldn’t focus enough on the details. He was at a panel, helmet shifting slightly as he apparently tried to figure something out. 

Temple was in the corner of the room, blood coming from his knee, knocked out cold. His hands were tied behind his back.

“You should have checked the perimeter,” Locus was saying as he began pressing buttons. “Temple was trying to ambush you.”

Grif was at Simmons’ leg now, undoing the rope there. “Yeah, well, whatever. What’s done is done. I had you covering my ass, didn't I?”

Locus hummed. “Get ready to catch him.”

“Wha--?”

The magnet shut off.

Simmons dropped immediately, and Grif barely maneuvered himself in time to catch him.

Grif was real he _wasreal_

Simmons moaned, burying his head into Grif’s chest and wrapping an arm around his back to bring him closer.

_hewasrealhewasrealhewasreal_

For a long second, Grif hugged him back, one hand in his hair as he mumbled something Simmons couldn’t hear. Then he pulled back.

Simmons realized they were both on their knees, Grif holding Simmons’ body up by his shoulders as he examined him at arm’s length. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “We’ll-- we’ll--” he cursed and shook out his head. “We’re going to get the others, okay? Can you walk, or do you need--”

Simmons flinched.

He was still shaking.

He still felt weak.

He gritted his teeth, put one hand on Grif’s shoulder, and used it as leverage to stand up.

His legs wobbled beneath him.

Grif immediately looped Simmons’ arm over his shoulders, steadying him. “Okay.” He looked to Locus.

Locus nodded once before grabbing Temple off the floor and easily heaving the man over one shoulder.

So easy. They’d taken him out so easy and Simmons hadn’t even been able to

“You good?” Grif asked softly.

No. He wasn’t good. Grif knew that.

There was still blood on his face, still bruises, still those fucking stitches.

“Are we able to cut the stitches off or--”

Locus shook his head. “Too dangerous here. It’s… best to wait for a medical professional.”

“Shit,” said Grif. “Fuck-- let’s just-- let’s go. You find Wash and Carolina, and Simmons and I’ll find the rest of the Reds and Blues.”

He almost wanted to grin at how Grif included him there.

Locus adjusted his hold on Temple and disappeared.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Grif. “Let’s get moving.”

They walked out the door, Simmons admittedly pushing most his weight on Grif.

Grif started to walk to the left.

Simmons made a noise and pointed to the right. He doubted Temple had them moved from the small prison area Bucky had been leading them to.

“You know where they are?”

His memory probably wasn’t entirely reliable right now, but he was… pretty sure. He nodded.

“Great. Let’s go.”

Grif walked on, Simmons plastered against him like glue. Simmons pointed on occasion, one time reaching a fork that he really had no idea which was the right way.

Grif had watched him hesitate, watched him start to panic again because fuckfuck he was already

“This way looks right,” he said, and dragged them along.

They’d only run into a few of the minions, but without orders from their leader, they were utterly lost. They simply let Grif and Simmons continue, doing nothing.

Simmons’ legs gave in beneath him, and Grif easily shouldered his weight even more. “Hey, you’re cool, dude. Just catch your breath.”

He didn't fight back. Couldn’t fight back, either way.

Simmons gave himself thirty seconds before continuing. Were the others okay? Had Temple moved them after all? Did Bucky hurt them? Was everyone still together or had they been separated? 

They approached a door that automatically slid open and--

“Ugh, Bucky, I swear to God if I have to hear your voice one more time I’ll-- holy fucking shit.”

Tucker was staring at him, horrified.

Simmons felt himself recoil, face burning.

“Fuck, you _really_ pissed off Temple. But-- er-- hi, Grif?”

“Uh, yeah. Hi. Uh, sorry about abandoning you back there.” Simmons felt him shift, perhaps to get a better view of Caboose. “And Caboose, I’m really sorry that I didn't help you find Ch--”

Tucker’s hand shot up, eyes wide. Quickly, he shook his head.

Simmons wanted to ask what was wrong (couldn’t), but also… didn't want to ask. Was too exhausted.

“Just get us out of here,” said Tucker. “Donut, Sarge, and Kai are a level below us. I’m pretty sure the reporters are with them. We need to hurry before Temple--”

“Temple isn’t a problem anymore,” said Grif. “He’s unconscious and may end up losing a leg, thanks to Locus.”

Tucker blinked. “What.”

“Long story. He’s on our side. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for him. Also, probably Simmons.” 

Simmons didn't react. It was true. If he’d had to watch Grif die, that would’ve been it for him. But Grif didn't have to know that.

“Um, cool. Can you, uh,” his eyes looked to Simmons’ face before turning back to Grif, “unlock the doors?”

Grif shuffled Simmons to the nearest wall, leaning him against it so he could get to work on the locks.

Simmons closed his eyes.

 

When he next woke up, he was outside.

Simmons jumped, crawling back several feet as he tried to recall how the fuck he’d gotten here and if Temple was coming back again to add another stitch or taunt him or put his gun to the back of Grif’s head and--

Grif was standing in front of him.

_ohgodohgod was that_

Grif’s hair was matted with blood, a deep crimson covering all over and there was a hole and

He made a strangled sound and leapt forward, one hand on either side of Grif’s head.

Nothing. Not even wet.

Grif tapped Simmons’ hand. “I’m okay, buddy. You can let go.”

Simmons tried to swallow, but his mouth and throat were too dry.

He settled back onto his haunches.

Grif was fine.

Temple hadn’t killed him.

But… but had he…

He furrowed his brow, bringing his hand up to his mouth and--

Grif grabbed his hand. “Uh-- don’t… don’t do that. Okay?”

That confirmed his suspicions.

His own face flashed before his eyes.

It was real. That wasn’t imagined.

Grif looked up. “Oh, thank God. Locus has Wash and Carolina.”

Right. Right. They’d been in trouble. Simmons had forgotten.

Tucker approached Grif and Simmons. “I called for evac. They should be getting here any minute now.” He looked at Simmons, staring for a half-second too long.

Simmons glared at him.

Tucker rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “Shit, sorry. It’s just… yeah, sorry, man. Jesus. Are you okay?”

Was he seriously asking that?

“Right, um… well, fuck. Y’know, I’ve never seen you pull shit like that before.” He put on a smile. “You were really tearing Temple a new one. Fuck-- I never could have done that. And your face-- dude, you didn't look scared at all. Like, _at all_.” He shook his head and slid his gaze to Grif. “You should’ve seen it.”

Grif’s shoulders tensed, the action easily missed by anyone else. Simmons noticed. He felt guilty. “Yeah. I should have.”

“OoOohH my gawd. Is that a ragdOLL?”

How was Wash doing that with his mouth? How was he talking like that?

Wait, Wash was talking about him.

Simmons watched as Grif tensed. “Wash, don’t--”

Wash’s voice turned to a whisper while still maintaining full volume. “I think I accidentally walked into a movie.”

Simmons only realized Grif was still holding his hand when he squeezed it. Simmons looked down at their interlaced fingers thoughtfully.

_“I don’t want you to die of blood loss before you see the man_ you _love butchered in front of you.”_

_“I just think it’s hilarious that you-- that you fell in love with a dude, didn't tell him, then had to watch him die.”_

He distantly heard Tucker reprimanding Wash, who was obviously still too delirious to realize he’d said something out of place, and making comments about how they should’ve just killed Temple not dragged him out here where Simmons and Caboose could see him and

Simmons looked up at Grif’s mismatched eyes. 

Grif was looking up, probably impatient for the evac to arrive. (Though impatient was hardly ever a suitable adjective for Grif.)

The one time Simmons desperately wanted to tell Grif how he felt, and he couldn’t even… 

He was in love with Grif.

Admitting it to himself was easy.

He squeezed Grif’s hand back, and Grif looked at him, his eyes not straying from Simmons’, not looking down at the stitches. An impressive feat, really. Simmons looked like hell, even before the dehydration and exhaustion. 

Simmons sighed out his nose and turned, letting his body drop into Grif’s. He tucked his head under Grif’s chin and squeezed his hand one more time.

 

He didn't miss the way Grif pressed his lips against his head.

Simmons hummed, letting his eyes fall closed once more.

**Author's Note:**

> and then he died.  
> (jk)
> 
>  
> 
> didn't go nearly as much into the trauma as I planned, but hopefully I did the prompt justice. I may add a second chapter later to deal more with the aftermath/address more explicitly the fact that Church didn't make that distress call/deal with Simmons dealing with the shit he went through/a bunch of other shit I left out.
> 
> plot holes? what plot holes? pft, no clue what you're talking about.
> 
>  
> 
> Send me an ask [here](https://not-madder-red.tumblr.com/ask) if you want to request a work to fill out my Bingo card (as specific or general as you want). Current version of my Bingo card can be found [here](https://not-madder-red.tumblr.com/post/185159385876/carolina-and-simmons-discuss-about-childhood)


End file.
